We leave Nashkel behind under a steady sun, the road still warm beneath our boots. No one speaks at first. There's no urgency in our pace, but there is direction, and that's enough to keep us moving.
Xan walks beside me, eyes half-lidded, attention split between the path and the spellbook tucked under his arm. After a time, I break the silence.
"Find anything worth the trouble while you were at the carnival?" I ask. "At the spell tent."
Xan doesn't look over. "Two pieces of marginal utility," he says. "One makes fortune slightly less hostile. The other makes people more agreeable than they have any right to be."
I huff quietly. "You don't sound impressed."
"I am not," he replies evenly. "But small advantages have a way of pretending they matter. One takes what comfort one can."
I nod, filing that away. It feels like the right moment—quiet, unobserved—to ask the question I'd been carrying since before we left town.
"There was a scroll I considered while we were there," I say. "One I wasn't sure I should take seriously without another opinion."
That gets his attention—just enough.
Xan slows half a step. "Which one?"
"Larloch's Minor Drain," I say.
"Efficient," he replies. "Quiet. It takes what would otherwise be lost."
"That doesn't sound like condemnation."
"No," he agrees. "It is assessment."
We walk a few more steps. I keep my eyes forward. "Would you help me scribe it?"
Xan exhales through his nose. "If you intend to learn it, yes. Someone should at least explain the cost before you decide it's acceptable."
That answer settles something. I don't say what, and he doesn't ask.
There was a time I wouldn't have raised the question at all—aware of how Khalid would have frowned, how Jaheira would have weighed the choice before I ever did. With them gone, the silence around the idea feels different. Less permission. More ownership.
Ahead of us, Rasaad and Branwen walk together, their voices low but not entirely private.
"I'm telling you," Branwen says, "nothing beats fresh bread and salted eggs after a long march."
Rasaad's reply comes calm, mildly amused. "Warm rice and fruit. Simple. Enough to begin the day without regret."
She huffs. "You live a very disciplined life."
"One must," he says, "or the body eventually reminds you why."
I almost smile.
The road doesn't end so much as it gives up.
Stone yields to uneven soil, then to leaf-litter and exposed roots. Markers disappear. There's no signpost announcing the change—just the quiet realization that we've stepped into a place no one bothered to formalize.
Imoen drifts closer, eyes already working. I notice it before she says anything—the way her pace shortens, how her weight shifts before each step commits.
"You're checking for traps," I say quietly.
She smirks, but her gaze doesn't lift. "Always."
"When you're doing it," I ask, "what's the first thing you look for?"
"What shouldn't be there," she says. "Or what should be—and isn't. Ground that's too smooth. Branches that don't fall naturally."
She tips her chin toward a narrow stretch ahead. "And anything that looks welcoming. That's usually a lie."
I nod, matching her pace.
The forest thickens as we move deeper, sunlight filtering down in steady shafts through the canopy. It's quiet, but not empty. Birds move above us. Something small darts through the underbrush and vanishes.
Then I see it—wood lashed to wood high above, platforms half-hidden among the leaves.
I stop. "Imoen."
She follows my gaze, squints, then stills.
"Those are Tasloi structures," she says. "Tree ambushers."
I frown slightly.
She glances at me, mouth quirking. "Like the ones from the Candlekeep texts."
"They favor high ground and cover," Imoen continues. "And people in Nashkel talked. Survivors." Her voice tightens just a little. "They said the Tasloi weren't just raiding. They were moving like they were being used."
The shapes above settle into something uglier.
"They won't be active now," she adds. "Sun's too high. But this is their ground."
We move with more care after that, eyes up and down, the forest suddenly layered with intent.
Then Imoen lifts a hand.
"There."
At the base of one of the larger trees, half-concealed by brush, sits a reinforced wooden cage—heavy wood, rope-bound, anchored deep into the roots. Whoever built it expected resistance.
Inside stands a slender figure.
She's already watching us.
Her skin bears the pale, bark-soft texture of living wood, veins faintly traced with green where the light touches her. Leaves are woven into her hair—not decoration, but growth. Her eyes are dark and steady, reflecting the canopy above like still water.
But she is not alone.
Three Tasloi remain at ground level.
One crouches near the roots, sharpening a curved blade against stone. Another leans against the trunk, long ears twitching, eyes half-lidded but not inattentive. The third drifts in a loose perimeter around the cage, occasionally glancing upward toward the platforms above.
The structures overhead are occupied.
This is not abandonment.
It is containment.
Xan exhales softly. "A dryad."
Imoen shifts slightly beside me. "Guards. Coordinated."
I nod once.
"We don't fight here," I murmur.
Branwen's jaw tightens, but she doesn't argue.
Rasaad lowers his gaze, watching footwork instead of faces. "They are not braced for assault," he says quietly. "But they are not careless."
"Good," I reply. "We don't need careless. We need bored."
So we wait.
The forest resumes its surface noise. Wind through leaves. The distant crack of something small moving far away. The Tasloi settle into rhythm—sharpening scrape, idle muttering, slow pacing.
Minutes pass.
The seam opens.
Imoen is already moving.
She doesn't rush. She becomes smaller.
The rope parts.
The peg eases free.
The door opens.
The dryad steps out in one fluid motion.
And by the time the Tasloi understand what has changed, we are already gone.
Only when the canopy thins and the forest breathes differently does she speak.
"You chose quickly."
"We didn't have the luxury of slow," Imoen replies.
"No," the dryad agrees.
I keep my voice even. "They were holding you. Why?"
"Because I was not watching them," she says. "I was watching others."
No one speaks.
"Two men," she continues. "They came yesterday. They walked the grove as if it already belonged to them. They returned to measure. To decide where to cut."
"Cut what?" Branwen asks.
"An old tree. They believe the land hides something owed to them."
"They will act before night," she says. "While there is still enough light to see their work — but not enough for the forest to watch them clearly."
"And you were caught because you were watching the men," I say.
"Yes."
Her gaze sharpens.
"They carry tools like men who borrowed them," she says. "They do not understand what they strike."
I glance toward the fading light.
"Those in Nashkel said there is a human among the Tasloi. Brage."
The name feels heavier here than it did in town.
The dryad does not react.
"A human moves among them," she says. "Not as prey. Not as kin. His presence gathers their hunger into order."
"The wound comes first," the dryad says.
"The old tree stands closer. If it falls, something older than these raiders will feel the loss."
Her gaze settles on me.
"When the root is preserved, I will guide you to what I have seen."
Imoen looks to me.
Branwen nods once. "We won't let them touch it."
Xan folds his arms. "One crisis at a time. How novel."
The dryad turns.
"This way."
We follow.
The forest thickens again—older, quieter, less forgiving.
And somewhere ahead, two men with borrowed steel are running out of time.
The sun is still up.
Not for long.